


The Conclusion

by guybriefly



Category: Wander Over Yonder
Genre: Almost love declaration, Disillusionment, Hospitals, M/M, Near Death Experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 09:41:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5962690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guybriefly/pseuds/guybriefly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peepers is injured. How did this happen? Would it have something to do with a certain green-eyed monster?<br/>Short fic for a tumblr prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Conclusion

The Commander blinked into consciousness and found himself engulfed in white. Had he died, or gone blind, or backed himself so far into the closet that he’d found Narnia? No. No, slowly, he discerned his surroundings. He was immobile with injury. More colours swam into his vision, glorious schools of fish forming a box of chocolates, a bowl of grapes, get-well-soon cards; he quickly recognised the whiteness as that of a hospital room, sterile and gleaming, and the tension flooded from his small, muscular body, which fell limp against the bed-sheets and plaster.

‘So,’ came a gruff voice from beside him. Mostly numb or hurting, only now did he become aware of fingers enveloping his left hand, thumb massaging the back in slow circles. ‘You’re awake, huh.’

Commander Peepers began to remember the events of the previous night – although it could’ve been a week ago, even a month, how long had he been unconscious? – and he began to feel like an idiot.

Hater didn’t look down at him, but resumed absently rubbing the back of Peepers’ hand.

‘Sir, I...’ But he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. He shook his head, turning away and closing his eye. ‘I’m not sorry for what I did, sir. I’ll admit it didn’t go the way I planned, but I won’t apologise.’

His voice lowered and he shrugged his shoulders, withdrawing his hand, only to have it fall limp at his side. Too weak. Too badly hurt. He could barely move; how _pathetic._

‘You don’t care anyway.’

From his bedside, now facing him although he was looking away, Hater turned in his chair with a grating scrape against the tile floor. Although Peepers was not aware of it, he’d been unconscious for a fortnight. Most of the cards, balloons and treats were from the watchdogs, they were massively loyal creatures, but secretly, as if he were delivering flowers by moonlight to the grave of a forbidden lover, Hater had bestowed his sleeping commander with two gifts: a small basket of assorted fruits (now overflowing, as he wasn’t sure what Peepers’ favourite fruit was and would add to it every time he thought of one) and a large teddy bear, probably bigger than Peepers himself, tan-coloured with a stunned expression and a big pink heart in its paws.

‘Explain to me, Commander Peepers,’ Lord Hater said, quiet but full of authority, full of admonition, the voice he used to humiliate him for a failure or mistake, ‘ _Exactly_ what you were doing.’

Uncomfortable, squirming, bedridden, all of the breath left Peepers’ lungs in a sigh and his eye started to water.

Groaning, thumping the mattress with both fists, he choked on his embarrassment. ‘What does it matter? I wasn’t good enough for you this time. I wasn’t good enough.’

Hater was silent.

Peepers’ words were broken with wan laughs. ‘I feel so stupid.’ And then the laughter stopped; it was replaced by a forlorn sincerity, ‘I thought – I was – I was so tired of you being so – so uselessly in love with Lord Dominator, I just wanted to show you that- that I wasn’t going to just follow you into this mess, because that’s what it _is,_ sir, it’s a _mess,_ what’s the- what’s the point?’

Audibly grinding his teeth, Hater remained unspeaking, moving his hand minutely to brush his fingertips against Peepers’. His eyes were half-lidded, he was studying the commander’s limp left hand as the other waved boneless, angry gestures in the air.

‘I couldn’t help but think that I deserved more. More recognition. If you just _let me_ prove myself, I could be the best dang commander you’d ever seen, sir! I felt like...’ He trailed off, sheepish. ‘Like I could take on Dominator. And if I took her out, maybe you’d... appreciate me.’

Hater tented his fingers, turning away, all business and cold bones. ‘Commander Peepers, do you feel as if I don’t respect you enough? As if I’m ungrateful for the work you do?’

‘ _No,_ sir- well, _yes-_ yes, but-’

He was interrupted. ‘Were you _jealous_ of Lady Dominator?’

The word dripped from his mouth, syrupy and terrible. Sickly heat flushed Peepers’ body and he felt just as useless, just as worthless as before. Like a dog avoiding scolding for chewing it’s master’s shoes, he looked away, stealing only brief peripheral glances at his lord’s face, unable to discern the emotion upon it.

‘I remember,’ he said in a weak little voice, sorry and disillusioned, ‘When I thought you were just so _great._ So powerful, like you could have anything you wanted. Even when you didn’t listen to me, or take my advice, I kept thinking, one day you’d have, I don’t know, an epiphany and you’d start... treating be better...’

‘And that’s what you think you deserve, is it?’

‘I don’t know what I deserve anymore, sir. I used to be your biggest fan, I don’t know how it turned out like this.’

How did it turn out like this? A wounded watchdog feeling unwanted in a hospital bed while his lord sat by his side, seemingly as cold as the injury-induced torpor that had swallowed him?

Peepers had taken on Dominator. If he wasn’t going to, nobody would. In a fit of envy, of rage, of desire unyielding to snap Hater (Hater, his role model; Hater, his idol; Hater, his unending object of awe and frustration) out of this infatuation, he attacked her alone while she sifted through rubble that used to be a city. He had struck her first. A shot from his blaster did no more damage than an inch-deep dent in the back of her armour. This was where the fight began.

By the time the Skullship arrived at the scene (Peepers had fled in the night, tracking down Dominator until she exited her ship on this lonesome wasteland), the commander was injured but still fighting. He evaded jets of fire by the tips of his lashes, left dents like craters in the immense black armour of his adversary, and only showed sign of tiring when Dominator took him by surprise, leaping out of a wave of magma like the headless horseman from the mist. She had him by the throat, squeezing, his eye turning bloodshot and bulging as he pawed at her hands. His blaster fell from his grip.

That was when Hater intervened. He had been frozen with infatuation until that moment. When the blaster hit the ground, reality struck him; Peepers could _die._ His commander, his trusted friend and confidant, the one he’d taken for granted so severely, could die here; a hero to all watchdogs but a tragedy irreplaceable. A flash of thunder illuminated the dust-purple sky. Dominator’s right horn was clipped by a bolt of lightning.

Pathetic.

With a formidable pitch, she threw him to the ground and he landed, near-unconscious, like a wilted flower at Hater’s feet. This was a warning; stupidity like this got people killed.

And it almost did. When he was rushed into a hospital bed, Peepers was unconscious. His body was a catastrophe of sprains, fractures, broken bones and bleeding. Watchdogs clamoured around, taking dibs on who’d sign his casts first, but Hater watched, terrified.

This fear, this terror that made his guts twist, what was it? He’d never felt this way for any other watchdog - they were just clockwork robots ticking away; if one was hurt he could replace it with another.

But Peepers. Loyal, faithful Peepers. The incident had opened Hater’s eyes. If Peepers died, how would his final sentiments be? Would he die feeling unappreciated, disenchanted, all of his dreams from long ago of grandeur and success running red and draining from his body, pooling up, spent and useless on the white bedsheets?

In the silence, Peepers had raised a hand to hide his face. He was crying. He thought he could prove himself worthy. He had a good plan. A sensible plan. But he’d just been so stupid executing it and almost executed himself. Like some kind of pathetic, reckless henchman. But the part that hurt him the most was that he _knew,_ he was _sure,_ that Hater would replace him afterwards, replace him with some other watchdog. They were expendable. He was nothing but another tin soldier who’d follow Lord Hater to the end of time, live or die, no questions asked.

He’d tried to break this degrading cycle, and look at what’d happened.

Hater rose from the chair. He walked to the foot of Peepers’ bed and then around to his right side, nearer to the door. Panicked, fevered, painful, Peepers raised a hand as if in protest, trying to will him not to leave. He was going to demote him. Or fire him. Or- or-

‘I’m sorry, sir, I just- I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t- _please_ don’t-’

‘Nonono, don’t move.’ Suddenly his voice was tender, worried, and a hand reached over to push him down. Peepers went without a fight, only a whimper of confusion. ‘It’ll just hurt more. You don’t need to be sorry, I was a butt, I was being such a _butt,_ wait a second, I know it’s- around here- somewhere...’

He rummaged in his robe’s pockets until he found what he was looking for.

A medal.

A round golden disc, a lightning bolt running through it, a green ribbon connecting the disc and a small gold tag, the name _Peepers_ engraved into it. It shone, lustrous and wonderful in the artificial lights of the room, and Peepers felt immediately lightheaded. Had he died? Was he dreaming?

Stooping slightly, Hater cleared his throat.

‘Commander Peepers of the Hater Empire, for bravery and loyalty, and for putting up with me being a complete butt, even if I was, y’know, totally right most of the time, not _all_ of the time but most of it, and for diligence, courage and copy-editing my fanfictions...’

He saw Peepers’ face, shining with joy, delirious, on the verge of passing back into unconsciousness, and he decided to get to the point. The commander didn’t have many moments of consciousness left before he fell asleep again. He wanted to make them special.

‘... I award you the Green Medal of Hateritude, the most prestigious award in the Watchdog legion. You’ve done a good job, Peepers, and I’m...’ He struggled to get the words out. ‘Sorry for how I treated you.’

Peepers looked like he could faint from glee; to tell the truth, he was on the brink of falling into a perfect, restful sleep, and he could only croak and reach out a hand to touch Hater’s face as his boss’s fumbling fingers pinned the medal to the breast of his hospital gown. To rest, to recover, to sleep, to dream of and awaken to change and respect, truth and deserving; to realise, to recognise, to remember; ultimately, to _love –_ what could be more blissful?

Closing the eye with a gentle thumb, Hater leaned forwards, and Peepers felt the gentle, clumsy kiss of lipless bones against his forehead, before he fell into a happy, dizzy, dreamful sleep.


End file.
